I’ll bake my own birthday cake. My lover cannot crack an egg without shattering the shell, nor does he use measuring spoons when adding vanilla extract. Being the bottom in a decade long man-on-man affair calls for desperate measures when one turns 42. No matter how sweet he is, I’ll do this myself, thank you!
Our gas oven is on its last flame anyway—we’ve used it this winter to heat the apartment. The stove stays on only at the broil setting. I’ll have to occasionally open the oven door to keep the inside roasting at an even 350. Thankfully the electricity and gas are still on despite those cards that someone keeps leaving at my door.
Peanut butter icing is my favorite. To make a Reese’s Cup glaze, I’ll combine a pound of a confectionery sugar, a stick of butter, and a half jar of peanut butter. Using a pastry bag, I’ll place sweet stars over Duncan Hine’s Devil’s Food baked in the shape of a teddy bear.
An aluminum teddy bear cake pan still hangs on my kitchen wall next to the pan shaped like a football. I never dust them off and haven’t baked in them since I made B’s mother a bear cake almost a half-decade ago.
There is an quarter inch of marijuana smoke scum covering the silver exteriors of the pans now. So much time has passed since I last baked a cake.
The shade of sandy brown offered by the peanut butter icing makes the perfect fur on a teddy bear, or the pig skin on a football cake. Perhaps I’ll bake both cakes and place twenty-one candles on each—something to blow—poor ‘B’– he’ll have to put on his Timberland Boots in the bedroom this evening—that’s all I ask for my birthday—the Timberland boots and a pair of boxer shorts.
Yes, I’ll bake my own cake. He got enough to do.